


rough weather

by orphan_account



Category: Black Sails
Genre: Bottom!Flint, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Rimming, light humiliation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-07
Updated: 2017-06-07
Packaged: 2018-11-10 02:19:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,140
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11117841
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Flint is in Port Royal to get fucked.





	rough weather

**Author's Note:**

> there wasn't enough truly filthy porn about flint getting fucked. so i wrote some.

Flint is in Port Royal to get fucked.

He doesn’t come here often. Maybe once a year; less than that, if the _Walrus_ has been taking prizes, if he isn’t at odds with Miranda, if Gates hasn’t been lecturing him, if he hasn’t been drinking more than is strictly good for him and waking up at his desk in the captain’s cabin with a throbbing head and the nauseating memory of dreams.

There are taverns a man can go to, set back in the ruins from the last earthquake. Places that aren’t _that kind of place_ , but are _that kind of place_ in another sense, because they’re full of more-than-usual evil, or at least the type of men who don’t want to be seen. The type of men who don’t want to admit they were in Port Royal, in this particular place on this particular date. The candles are always burning lower than they should be, and there is always at least one man there with that particular look: that anxious, electric, watchful look, scanning the horizon like a sea captain might for a waited-for prize. Flint himself must have that look. He doesn’t like to think about that. But he must, because he sits back and they come to him. The right kind of men, as though they can read his mind— bigger men, men with broad shoulders, men who probably think they are tougher than he is.

All it takes is a quick conversation full of coded looks. In this case: the man drops into the seat across from him, a man with coarse dark hair and an unshaven face, and pushes a tankard of ale across the table.

“Rough weather out there,” the man says.

Flint accepts the ale. “I’ve never minded rough weather.”

“I’ll bet you haven’t.” The man drinks without taking his eyes off Flint. His gaze is hot and measuring and Flint returns it and the man must like what he sees, because he grins short and sharp. “I myself have been known to enjoy a good storm. As long as one is inside, with good company, there’s nothing unpleasant about it.”

Beneath the table, his knee bumps Flint’s knee, pauses, and then presses heavily there. Flint doesn’t move. He drinks carefully from the tankard, sets it down, and sees the man watch him as he licks the foam from his lips.

“I’m James,” Flint says, because it’s a common enough name, and he wants the man to say it to him later. He extends his hand.

“Robert,” the man says, and holds his hand a little too long, fingers caressing the base of his wrist. “I don’t suppose you have a place to ride out the storm, James?”

Flint does, as a matter of fact. It is a spartan room, a poor accommodation at a seedy and ill-tended inn. The door is barely bolted before Robert— if that is truly his name— is crowding him up against it, taking his face in both hands and kissing him, wet and not particularly skillful. This part isn’t what Flint wants. But he tolerates and even responds to it, his cock beginning to get heavy from the sheer closeness of a man, the rasp of stubble and that subtly male scent, the broad callused hands against his face, tangling in his hair. He reaches out to palm Robert’s cock through his trousers— a little harder than Flint’s and growing under his touch.

“What did you have in mind?” Robert asks, breathing hard against him.

Flint goes to light a candle. “I want you to take me,” he says when the flame is flaring. The orange light spreads throughout the room. “And I want you to make me take it. If that is amenable to you. I’m happy to do whatever you’d like as well.”

Robert approaches him from behind and— embraces him, almost, arms going around him and hands wrestling with Flint’s belt. He nuzzles at the nape of Flint’s neck, inhaling softly, his breath stirring the fine hairs there. Flint breathes in hard, feeling his cock harden further, and pushes away.

“You don’t have to be gentle,” he says, his voice flat. “In fact, I would prefer if you weren’t.”

There is perhaps a flicker of disappointment on Robert’s face. But he says, “Make you take it. Right.”

“And whatever else you’d like.” Flint is undressing briskly, casting the belt aside, pulling his shirt and trousers off.

Robert watches him. Any disappointment is gone now. He’s rubbing at himself absently through his own trousers; after a moment he undoes the placket and pulls his cock out. It is a fair example of its kind, above average size and thickness, well on its way to being fully hard. “Come here, then,” Robert says, and sits back on the low bed. “You can get on your knees and suck me.”

Flint is sure Robert can see that he finds the command arousing, that his cock jumps and his breath stutters in his chest. But neither of them says anything. Flint kneels. He’s acutely aware of his nakedness, naked and kneeling in front of a fully clothed man, and that’s worse, which is to say, even more arousing. He can feel his nipples tighten. He wets his lips and lowers his mouth onto Robert’s cock, bobbing back and forth on it, taking it in little by little, inch after inch. It grows and tightens on his tongue as he works, and he can taste the evidence of Robert’s enjoyment. A heavy hand lands on the back of his head— fingers tangling in his head, pressing him downwards. He lets himself be pressed, lets himself be pushed until he is almost choking, the head of Robert’s cock nudging at the back of his throat, then lets himself be pulled back. Pushed down again. Lets Robert set a punishing rhythm. Lets himself be used. His own cock is very hard now, enough that it’s at the front of his consciousness, and at one point he can’t stop himself from making a soft, hungry noise.

“Look up at me,” Robert says, and tilts Flint’s head up so Flint is forced to look him in the eyes as he sucks. That seems to be what Robert wants; his cock stirs in Flint’s mouth and Robert exhales sharply, releasing Flint’s hair to touch his forehead. “Fuck, you’re beautiful. You’re really beautiful.”

This is not what Flint wants, and vindictively, he pushes his tongue up against the underside of his cock, sucks hard at the round dome of the head, and then slides all the way down in one swift tight movement. Robert blurts out, “ _Yes_ , yes, yes, yes, fuck, fuck,” his hips snapping forwards in a quick succession of strokes. Then he’s pulling Flint off— “You want me to fuck you, don’t you?”— and motioning him up onto the bed.

Flint arranges himself there on all fours. He doesn’t touch his cock, although he wants to rub against the bedsheets, wants to rut there like an animal until he comes. He waits, aware of Robert undressing behind him. Then a warm hand strokes all the way down his back, and he flinches. “I told you, you don’t have to—“

“Apologies,” Robert says. “Do you want to come before or after?”

“You don’t have to—“

“You said you’d do whatever I’d like. I want to make you come. I want to watch you coming.”

“It doesn’t make a difference, then.”

“All right. Up to me, then.” He settles behind Flint on the bed, and Flint thinks that at last they’re getting to the central part of the action. But Robert doesn’t touch him. Instead he says, “Show yourself to me. Show me what I’m getting.”

It’s an abrupt and skin-prickling slap of shame. Flint’s head actually jerks back, as though he’s been hit. His cock jerks, too, and he feels himself flush with want all over. He has to suck in a couple of hard, out-of-control breaths before he reaches back and spreads himself for Robert’s gaze. For a long moment Robert doesn’t say anything, just lets him feel the humiliation of the posture. Then a thumb traces the flesh around his entrance, and Flint shudders, panting open-mouthed.

“Am I allowed to say this is beautiful?” Robert asks. “Since it’s just a hole for me to push my cock in?”

That provokes another shudder, and forces the smallest sound out of Flint. He lets his head drop. He doesn’t answer. He doesn’t think he can answer. His hands are trembling.

Robert laughs quietly. “I thought you’d like that.” He’s moving his thumb back and forth, just a little. Then abruptly that thumb is gone— replaced by a tongue that swipes over that small space, broad and damp and hot, and Flint squeezes his eyes shut at the sensation and says, “What are you— _“_

Robert draws back. “Whatever I’d like, you said.”

“You can’t want to—“

“Do you not like it?” He is touching Flint there again with one finger, teasing. “You don’t like being pleasured like a woman on a man’s tongue? Don’t want me to make you ready to take my cock?”

Flint is pushing back against that finger. He can’t control his own hips, so suffused is he with raw need. Naked like this, it’s impossible for him to hide what the words have done to him. His throat works. He doesn’t want to speak until he knows he can take charge of his voice. At last— “Fine. Do it,” he manages.

And Robert does it. First just licking there in long, luxuriant strokes, then very carefully beginning to push with just the tip of his tongue at Flint’s entrance. Then harder, fucking Flint with that tongue. He pulls back and spits, and everything is suddenly so much wetter, slick and warm, and he is being explored, unearthed, mapped in his most intimate place, forced into the humiliating revelation of pleasure with every swallowed sound and flinch… And then a finger pushing into him beside the tongue, probing at him, touching him where he should not want to be touched. He buries his face in the bed linen where he can’t cry out. He won’t cry out, even as his body slowly opens around that finger, around two fingers, more access for the tongue that licks all around and inside him, showing him no kind of mercy. His cock is dripping onto the sheets, and his balls are drawn up against his body. He could touch himself, he thinks, he could finish himself off, and then the worst part would be over; the betrayal would already be done. But to do that would be an admission.

It seems like it’s beside the point, anyway— the third finger enters him, pushing him oh-so-open, oh-so-exposed, and striking with unerring accuracy at every place inside him that makes his body seize up, and Flint groans against the bed and jerks back and feels himself on the edge. He rocks against those spit-slick fingers, driven by a pure raw animal demand, his breath coming shorter and shorter, his whole body tensing with the intolerable urge to come—

And abruptly the fingers are withdrawn, and he is clenching down on emptiness. His eyes fly open, and he twists angrily. “What—?”

Robert is flushed, wet-mouthed, and evidently self-satisfied. “You said I could choose, after or before. I chose after.”

“You fucking—“

“Shh.” Robert puts a finger to his mouth. “I’m giving you what you want.” In fact, he is slicking his cock from a jar of tallow. “Just put your goddamn head down and take it.”

Not wholly mollified, Flint sets his forehead against the bed and fists his hands in the linen. He feels the first nudge of Robert’s cock. He has been with men who make him wait for it, who push and rest and push and rest, as though they are afraid they will break him. But now the first hurt of the huge push doesn’t stop, doesn’t give him space to breath, but keeps pushing and pushing and pushing, spreading him unbelievably open. He gasps raggedly against the sheets, his body twitching, conscious of nothing but the sensation of being so filled. So full of another man’s cock. He can do nothing but submit to the feeling of being fucked.

At last Robert stills, and Flint thinks he is as deep as he can get. But Robert says, sounding breathless, “I think you can take a little bit more,” and gets a hard grip on Flint’s hips and shifts them upwards before shoving in another hard half-inch.

Flint groans without meaning to, very loud and barely muffled. His cock has softened a little, but he doesn’t know why, because every part of him is humming with how good this is. How much this is exactly what he had wanted. He feels Robert slowly withdraw, dragging himself out inch by inch, until only the head of his cock is in Flint’s body— them push inexorably in again. It’s like being entered for the first time all over.

“Oh fuck you’re so tight,” Robert says in rush. “Oh fuck, you’re perfect, perfect, James.” He repeats the same motion, shoving back in even harder, enough to rock a shocked breath out of Flint, and then again, each stroke long and deep and thorough, increasing in speed and force as they go. His hands clench at Flint’s waist, hard enough to hurt, and his thighs make wet slapping sounds each time he fucks into Flint.

Flint’s cock is rapidly hardening again. That makes things more difficult, before everything feels so much better. He knows exactly how good it can feel, how good it feels to come with someone’s cock inside him, though that had been… another lifetime, memories that belong to another man. That vague electric pleasure builds up inside him, and he clenches down against Robert, his cock getting wet.

Robert says, “God, yes, you like that, don’t you? You like getting fucked like this?” He pulls back and spreads Flint open, still fucking him, perhaps gazing at where he fucks him, enjoying the image of his cock sliding out and in. With a thumb, he rubs against the skin just above the place where his cock is working, almost but not quite pushing in.

Flint makes an almost inhuman sound, his fists clenching in the bedclothes. His hips jerk back hard, and Robert moans and does it again. His thrusts are becoming less rhythmic, more ferocious. Flint doesn’t want this to be over. He wants to stay face down on a bed, forced to take what is given to him, unable to reject this pleasure. As though the pleasure itself was being fucked into him. Fuck, he wants to come, and he can’t bear it, and he wants to bear it forever.

Robert moves his hands back to Flint’s waist and clutches there as he shoves his cock in frantically, obviously chasing his orgasm. “Fuck,” he grates out. “Fuck, fuck, fuck, yes, _yes—“_ and he gives one last deep thrust and stays there, and Flint can feel the small jerks and spreading wetness as he comes inside of him. The thought of it makes Flint twitch, his body tighten, and Robert gives one last shuddering groan.

He withdraws almost at once, an uncomfortable motion that leaves Flint feeling exposed, naked to the air. Then he is pulling at Flint, urging him over, arranging him to lie on his back. Flint is too dazed and hungry for contact to resist. He goes, and then Robert is kneeling over him, pulling at his cock with a slick fist, not fast, in fact slowly, and it’s so much sensation after not being touched there for so long that Flint arches up.

Robert pushes him back. “You got what you want,” he says. “This is what I want.” His hand works at that same unbearable pace. His other hand, reaching, finds Flint’s hole and toys with it, sliding two fingers in. “You’re so wet from me,” he says, sounding like he enjoys the fact.

Flint can feel how wet he is. How soiled, how disgraceful, and yet he grinds down on those fingers, letting out a gasp. “ _Fuck_ ,” he says, as he feels them start to fuck in and out in time to the hand that pulls at his cock. He’s reaching that place where he has to come, where everything falls away and all that is left is the _need_ , the absolute physical desire. He’s so close. he’s so close. He’s not quite there, it’s not quite enough— those teasing fingers and that slow hand— and then, abruptly, Robert thrusts _four_ fingers into him, a sudden width that fills him up, and he twists his head to the side to hide his expression and makes a ragged sobbing sound and comes.

He hasn’t come this hard since the last time he was in Port Royal. Maybe since before that. For long minutes he isn’t aware of anything, and he thinks that Robert might be stroking his hair, but he can’t muster up the will to do anything about it. And when he comes back to himself, they’re side by side on the bed.

Flint sits up, hunching over himself. He pushes his hair behind his ears with sweaty fingers. He wants to go to the basin and wash, but he doesn’t want to walk across the room while naked, covered in his own semen and sweat. Finally he says, “I think we’re done here.”

“Let me sleep for a couple of hours,” Robert says, “and I can fuck you again. Longer this time. Don’t worry,” he adds, sounding weary. “I’ll make sure you can hate yourself for it.”

“It’s not that,” Flint says without turning. Then: “It’s not only that.”

Robert lets the silence grow. Perhaps he’s fallen asleep, Flint thinks. But when he chances a look, he sees him watching. Flint sighs. “I don’t hate you,” he says. “Or— even the act itself. It’s… complicated.”

“It always is,” Robert says.

Flint feels wrong-footed by the whole conversation. He hadn’t meant to reveal so much. He says, “You can sleep. Just—“

“I know,” Robert says. “Don’t be gentle.”

He turns on his side, facing away from Flint. Flint eyes him. He feels well-fucked, heavy with the sensation, sore and filthy and exhausted and satisfied. His fury has been battered out of him, at least for the moment, and if it leaves a residue of disgust behind, that’s no one else’s fault. He shouldn’t be ungrateful. And he wants to get fucked again. Or, at least, he can’t see the harm in it. He reaches out and rests a hand on Robert’s arm, a quick press, just for a moment.

Then he walks to the basin to wash himself clean.


End file.
